


Fledgling Quandary

by ezlebe



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Codes & Ciphers, M/M, parent teacher conferences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23288530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ezlebe/pseuds/ezlebe
Summary: “Mr Cobblepot,” the teacher greets, offering a light, neutral smile while holding a hand out between them. “I’m Marisa Serafinowicz – History. It’s so good to meet you face to face.”“You, as well,” Oswald says, reluctantly taking her hand.“Please,” Serafinowicz says, taking a step back into the classroom and gesturing at the emptier of a pair of chairs set up in front of her desk; Martín sits in the other, staring at the window and pen spinning between his fingers in demonstrative teenage apathy.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 14
Kudos: 122





	Fledgling Quandary

Oswald quietly curses stairs as he steps off the stone into a brightly lit hall. He hasn’t been to this section of the campus yet, so takes his time, glancing at portraits and through bay windows with benches, until finally he comes to a stop at a door chicly expounding the benefits of not repeating history. He raps his cane on the jamb, immediately hearing footsteps shuffle up to the door; a few years ago, he might have peeked in first, gotten a good judgment of the mood inside before meeting, but he’s come to realize it’s wasted effort.

The door opens to curly, tied-back hair, a muted blouse, and a pair of oversized glasses; altogether, the picture of a formulaic history teacher. “Mr Cobblepot,” the teacher greets, offering a light, neutral smile while holding her hand out between them. “I’m Marisa Serafinowicz – History. It’s so good to meet you face to face.”

“You, as well,” Oswald says, reluctantly taking her hand.

“Please,” Serafinowicz says, taking a step back into the classroom and gesturing at the emptier of a pair of chairs set up in front of her desk; Martín sits in the other, staring at the window and pen spinning between his fingers in demonstrative teenage apathy.

Oswald briefly fantasizes about telling Serafinowicz that he’ll simply be taking Martín home and that she can put up with his behavior for as long as Oswald is paying tuition. It’s a good fantasy – an old standby, if with different instructors – that gets him through until he’s sitting in an uncomfortable chair that is somehow already aggravating his leg. His feeling on schools hasn’t changed much since he walked out of his last.

“Firstly,” Serafinowicz says, settling in her own chair with a distinct and oddly confident lift of her chin. “I would like to emphasize that Martín is an _exceptional_ student and a delight to teach.”

Oswald has been invited to enough of these talks to know he isn’t here to hear the virtues of his son, so doesn’t respond to the empty platitude. He’s also been to enough of these to recognize that Martín isn’t even a _bit_ abashed, or evasive, which means this is going to be addressing something utterly absurd and not remotely unlawful. 

Serafinowicz flounders slightly at Oswald’s silence, nodding to herself stiltedly and folding her hands on top of a calendar pinned to her desk. “However, he’s chosen to take advantage of this week’s assignment, and nothing I have said will deter him.”

Oswald narrows his eyes, peeking sideways at Martín and his far-too-neutral expression. “Taken advantage?”

“We’ve been covering the history of wartime cryptography,” Serafinowicz says, briefly rolling back in her chair and gesturing to a stack of aged books with titles like _Seizing the Enigma,_ which… begins to explain everything about why he is currently sitting in this room. “So this Monday, I challenged the students to create their own cipher and encouraged them to do their assignments in the code until it was broken by myself or another student –”

“…Ah,” Oswald intones lowly, mostly to himself, and blindly pulls his phone from an inner pocket.

“The trouble is Martín…” Serafinowicz pauses to press her lips together, then reaches out and takes a manila folder from an organizer at the corner of her desk, opening it to reveal a stack of loose papers. “He not only did not complete the assignment, but refuses to admit it.” She pushes the open folder across the desk, “And has been writing in this random series of letters for three days now.”

Oswald reaches out and picks up a paper from the stack, staring at the mix of letters and numbers across the sheet where history responses are clearly meant to be written; it’s all in _green ink_. He sighs deeply and spreads out the rest of the papers, finding them all similarly marked, and lifts a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Why do you do this to your father?”

Martín responds with a huffing breath that is his version of uproarious laughter.

“Mr Kapel - _Cobblepot_ ,” Serafinowicz winces, pushing her glasses up her nose with a deep breath. “Sorry, um, I’m not used to… Most students have their parent’s name.”

Oswald glances sideways to share with Martín the schadenfreude for that incredibly clumsy attempt to ask an awkward question by deliberate accident. “It was my mother’s name. He can choose his own when he’s old enough.”

“…Of course,” Serafinowicz says, her tone slightly patronizing while she proceeds to stare at the edge of her desk in a particularly telling bemusement. “Back to the topic at hand,” she says, looking up with that permanent, neutral smile directed at Oswald, which is quickly becoming an irking sight. “I was hoping that we might come to an agreement today of how to discipline Martín for this, and to find some way for him to efficiently re-do all the schoolwork that he’s missed this week.”

Oswald glances across the spread of worksheets, covered in what was clearly twice the work needed, and shakes his head while he brings his hand up to rest on the edge of the desk. He ignores Serafinowicz’ attempts to keep talking while he starts texting, then clears his throat after hitting send, looking up as he returns the phone to his pocket. “Ms Serafinowicz, correct me if I’m wrong, but have you _recently_ moved to Gotham?”

“Yes,” Serafinowicz says, clearly unsettled at the question and sitting up straighter in her chair with a slight tightening of her expression. “At the start of semester.”

“Right, right,” Oswald says, debating on asking next what she thinks it might be about her that has deterred the other academy staff from sharing the gossip accrued since Martín started here three years ago. “Well. I’ve just invited someone who’s going to explain all – ” He lifts a hand to gesture cyclically at the worksheets, feeling a buzz in his jacket that he somewhat spitefully ignores. “This. I hope you’ve got the time”

“I don’t know if that’s necessary,” Serafinowicz says, her eyes darting toward the door. She's nervous suddenly, in the way teachers usually are from the beginning of the conference, but it’s unlikely that she’s just _now_ recognized Oswald. “I’m very willing to ensure Martín makes up for the loss of work.”

Oswald narrows his eyes at her a beat longer, then glances sideways to make eye contact with Martín, knowing his disapproval is received in full when he receives an eye-roll in response.

“I didn’t say anything,” Martín signs, defensive and full of hand flicking teenage animosity, “You were the one who asked if she’s new in town – next time just ask if she’s got anyone around who would miss her.”

Oswald peeks briefly to confirm that Serafinowicz is more confused than offended by Martín’s words, so probably doesn’t understand. He sets his cane against his knee, rebutting quickly, “I know you set this up for some reason – it won’t earn you any favors, young man.”

“How would I have set it up?” Martín responds, eyes going wide in a mockery while he signs broader in emphasis. “She assigned it.”

“And I believe we have discussed the difference between doing work exceptionally and – ” Oswald attempts to come up with anything else except the evident, but gives up when his irritation beats out. “Riddling.”

Martín stares hard in that particularly dark eyed way, not quite defiant, but very near baleful, then abruptly he slumps with a sullen frown. “I wanted Ed to come in and make her feel dumb,” he admits with his own pointed look toward the door. “She treats me like I’m dumb. She’s always asking if I need any extra help and talking like – ” he starts signing exaggeratedly slow. “This. To. Me.”

Oswald presses his lips together, then throws his hands up smally in surrender. A part of him wants to insist he can just as easily make people feel dumb, but he must admit historians really _are_ far more Ed’s sort of target, if usually not the sort that would fall victim to clever children. He drops his hands and taps at his phone for a few seconds, then lift his hands again, “And why does she think I might threaten her?”

“She thinks everyone in Gotham is a criminal,” Martín signs, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly and slumping further in his seat with a dark look in Serafinowicz’ direction. “I heard her saying she only moved out of Star City for the paycheck.”

Oswald responds with his own eyeroll, turning attention to the window and setting his hand down on his knee to massage out an intermittent throb against the old scar.

“Mr Cobblepot,” Serafinowicz says, her chair squeaking slightly when she nudges forward in a way that can only be described as careful. “Is it really necessary to –”

“Yes,” Oswald interrupts flatly, looking back to firmly catch her eyes, then offering his own aloof smile.

Serafinowicz hunches just slightly, hands nervously folding over each other now atop her desk. “Will it be very long?”

“I don’t know,” Oswald says, tempted slightly to check the messages he knows are waiting on the phone, but that might start an argument and he loathes having them over text. “Not long, he’s…” He looks over to Martín, belatedly realizing something that he probably should have thought about before sending any summons. “Did he make breakfast this morning?”

Martín shakes his head, lifting his hand. “Cereal.”

Oswald now soundly regrets taking his phone out at all – he should have just told Serafinowicz to figure it out on her own. He loathes bringing Ed into these talks on a good day, he tends to make enemies of teachers easier than he does police, and it seems like today will certainly continue that trend if he’s really been toiling in the Factory for over twenty-four hours. “Well. He’s in the city,” he says, offering Serafinowicz a forced laugh. “So not too long.”

“Oh,” Serafinowicz intones, her eyes sliding slowly to the door and hands curling tighter over the calendar.

Oswald nods once and returns to staring at the window, redirecting his thoughts toward what he’s going to have to do about Warren White – the man has _one_ inauspicious stay in Arkham and suddenly he thinks he can step up and take over. He’ll have to deploy Zsasz somewhere to make an obvious show of force, likely by taking out one of his own _turncoat_ lieutenants; he understands the desire for money and power, but really, White is a literal ghoul. It might even be effective to commission something from –

A loud bang yanks Oswald out of his musing and he reflexively tenses as he turns, one hand reaching inside his coat, only to recognize the rude vagrant who has just burst through the door. “You look like a mess,” he greets, hooking his other arm over the back of his chair and gesturing down Ed’s body with a sweep of his hand.

Ed glances back and forth across the classroom, visibly harried, until his tensed, balled hands abruptly drop. He takes a deep breath, mouth pinching tight while he gives Oswald a hard look that is softened considerably by a dark stain on his cheek and the mess his hair makes around goggles. “You said it was an emergency!”

“It is,” Oswald says, feeling a smirk escape his half-hearted attempt to keep a neutral expression. “Can’t you see that everyone’s time is being wasted?”

Ed exhales hard, reaching up and dragging the goggles from his head, then shaking them aggressively at Oswald. “You’re abusing the system.”

Oswald pretends to think for a moment, then tips his head with a mildly embellished shrug. It’s not as if Ed has any leg to stand on – the last time _he_ used the emergency code, it was to get himself out of a conversation about legal chemical storage.

“Hi, there – Ed Nygma,” Ed says, turning and walking up to Serafinowicz as his scowling face does an unnerving instant shift into a bright smile, holding out his hand for her to hesitantly shake; the expression is thankfully more polite than manic, which is always a tossup. “So what are we…” His eyes catch on the desk, silent for a beat before he leans down and shoves into the tiny space between it and Oswald’s chair, entirely distracted by the worksheets. “Is this a _code –_ did you do this, Martín?”

Martín leans forward in his seat with an earnest nod.

“Hm,” Ed hums, pulling the paper from the desk and staring hard, then humming again, lower and more thoughtful. He starts pulling more papers from the stack, peering at them before arranging them across the desk with little care how for Serafinowicz is staring at him like he’s mad.

Oswald rolls his eyes to the paneled ceiling, awkwardly scooting the chair back, then looks over and down to the thrilled Martín, a little glow blooming at the center of his chest. Oswald was, at first, dismayed by how Martín seemed to be getting closer to Ed than him with every passing year, but in little moments like this he manages to find more pride in it than agitation – his family is real, no matter what anyone might say about them or their mismatched _names_.

“Oh!” Ed exclaims, standing up straight from the desk while holding two papers aloft in evident triumph. “It’s a substitution cipher _in Hungarian_.”

Serafinowicz blinks twice and leans forward, peering at the other worksheets in plain disbelief.

Martín exhales a thwarted sigh that contains multitudes.

“I knew what to look for,” Ed comforts, turning at the waist and bending over slightly to point out the different accents and letter pairs, which Oswald himself should have noticed, subsequently feeling _his_ chance at making the teacher feel stupid slip through his fingers.

“I don’t understand,” Serafinowicz says, taking a slightly unsteady breath while leaning back in her chair. “Are you telling me this is an actual cipher?”

“Clearly,” Ed says, laughing in typical smugness while his ego slowly fills the room like a poison gas; a quick glance sideways confirms that Martín is visibly delighted by all the boasting, which is hardly a surprise since the little sneak set this all up. “And Martín is incredibly intelligent, of course, but if you can’t figure this out in under a day, I don’t know why you’re even bothering to attempt teaching about the enigma.”

Serafinowicz goes silent for a conspicuous beat, her mouth falling half open then closing as she rapidly blinks away visible upset. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t understand the basic subject matter,” Ed says, setting the sheets back down and straightening them into a neat pile, and a short lean sideways confirms that, of course, he’s flipping them in and out by date until they’re in order. “Even Oswald would have gotten this, if he had since Monday.”

Oswald ignores a quiet huff from his side while repressing an urge to reach out and push the pointy end of his cane into the exposed back of a bony knee. “Don’t push it, Ed.”

“I don’t know Hungarian,” Serafinowicz says, her voice tight and lips rolling together with unmistakable affront.

“You don’t need to, this day in age,” Ed says dismissively, reaching into his pocket and showing off the overpriced tiny computer that he forced Oswald to buy, too good for a normal phone. “The pattern and alphabet used is easily searchable on the internet.”

“I see, um, Mr… Nygma,” Serafinowicz takes a deep breath, her hands briefly tightening into fists over the edge of the desk before dropping into her lap. “What is it you do – is it something with cryptography?”

Ed lets his phone fall to his side, blinking widely before his entire body slumps with discontent.

“She’s not from Gotham,” Oswald says, tapping twice at Ed’s thigh with the back of his hand.

“Oh,” Ed says, his voice abruptly dropping into a rougher tone. “You’ll know soon enough, should you wander downtown in…” He trails off for a beat, looking into the middle-distance with a tight pinch at his lips. “Thirty hours.”

Serafinowicz sends a loaded glance to Oswald before looking back to Ed. “Are you a performer?”

A particularly irked brand of offense settles across Ed’s face, eyes going markedly dark.

“Yes,” Oswald answers shortly, quickly shoving up from the chair with a grimace. He nudges Ed toward the door with his cane, trying to deter any bloodshed, then sets his own hard look on Serafinowicz, staring at her from under his brows for a few seconds while his jaw sets firm. “I believe we're done here, unless you have any more _thoughtless_ accusations regarding our son?”

Serafinowicz shrinks in her seat with a hasty shake of her head. “ _No_. No, sir. I - I'll get grading these... Full marks, I'm sure."

"I'm sure," Oswald echoes, leaning back on his cane while lifting his chin and shifting his expression into a smirk. "Until next time."

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on the twitters[ @ ezlebe](https://twitter.com/ezlebe?lang=en)
> 
> TBH I have started like three fics that are entirely plotless aside for "Martín goes to a fancy private school", so this may be a series.


End file.
